Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? She begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”
((How do you respond?))
"Expecting me?" Gormalo barks, a curious glint in his eye. "It's not often a downtrodden panhandler like me is expected, none the least afforded a gaze." His eyes meander on the hags festering rags, once meant to be clothes, "A feeling you surely understand, eh?" He takes some moldy scraps of tack, gives it a quick rub on the cuff of his robe, and begins to eat. "The taste is much kinder than the taste of hunger, you know, would you care to try some?" The dryness of the tack droughts his mouth, which he remedies with a quick swig of an unlabelled flask, the contents of which are no less poisonous than the tack. "I suppose to answer your question my story is quite simple, from the moment of my birth I have lived for nothing simple pleasures. Drifting from city to town, I have become addicted to an endless pursuit of unknown pleasures, perhaps this town too has something that my mind has not yet known." He offers the flask, wafting a repulsive scent throughout the tent, "Care to try?"
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